


if your mom doesn't teach you

by 8sword



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Femslash February 2017, claire is an asshole to people who don't deserve it and people who do, pole dance instructor!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 01:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9944936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword
Summary: Every six weeks, a new pole dancing class starts at the rec center.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loversforlycanthropes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=loversforlycanthropes).



> A nine-month late birthday gift for loversforlycanthropes! I finally finished this while avoiding studying. Kisses and happy Femslash February!

Every six weeks, a new pole-dancing class starts at the rec center. Claire’s been around for about six of them now, and as such has become accustomed to the usual mix of participants: the giggly group of middle-aged moms who keep telling each other they can’t believe they agreed to do this; the phone-clutching knot of twenty-something young professionals who all, inevitably, wear black tank tops and yoga pants; the pairs of friends who come together, sticking close side-by-side at the back or the edge of the group, occasionally a guy or two like that blonde giant who was here a few cycles back, and then, sometimes, the poor souls who are brave enough to come to this thing alone. There’s two this time: an older lady who clearly doesn’t give a shit what anyone cares about her based on the fact that her tank top has visible yellow sweat stains and she’s wearing mismatched socks visible above her tennis shoes, and a girl probably about Claire’s age who holds her duffel bag really close to her side and keeps flicking furtive glances around. She takes a spot at the back of the group, which never fails to make Claire grin to herself because people never remember to think about the fact that the rec rooms all have half-plastic walls that look out into the main lobby where she reigns at the front desk. It’s sad, really.

In a hilarious way.

Cas arrives in his usual sweatpants and faded sky blue t-shirt, looking like he just rolled out of bed. He pushes the door to the classroom open, and Claire momentarily hears the half-nervous, half-excited chatter of the class members inside before it closes again. Pole-dancing is always the last class of the night, probably because the rec directors think it’s too scandalous a class to risk exposing the young eyes of the after-school crowd to it, and Claire leaves the desk and her vantage point to start working on the end-of-the-day activities of making sure the bathrooms are stocked with toilet paper, the classroom keys have all been put on their proper hooks, etc. It’s a glamorous life she leads.

By the time she gets back to the desk, it’s quarter of nine, and a clump of sweaty adolescent boys have coalesced around the pole-dancing room, ogling at the activities inside.

“Twenty bucks to watch,” Claire says loudly, and most of them are abashed enough to jump and head to the locker room. The remaining two she Fish-Eyes down, and they slink away shoving each other with their basketballs.

“Have fun watching each other in the showers!” she calls after them.

Cas is leading the ladies into the cool-down period; she recognizes the moves. She settles back behind the desk to do the same thing she just glared the high schoolers away from doing. Mismatched socks girl is shaking her body like they’re doing the Macarena instead of pole-dancing, and one of the college girls up front is basically twerking, which wouldn’t be as hilarious as it was if Claire didn’t watch the girl next to her glance over at her and, apparently thinking she wasn’t moving correctly, start doing the same thing.

The last row of the room consists of two of the mom-types, and the girl Claire’s age who came by herself. She’s wearing yoga pants, too, and Claire spots a “Medium” sticker still adhered to the back of the left leg, just under where her panty line is visible.

Good lord. It’s kind of adorable.

A few minutes later, Cas dismisses them. The door opens to disgorge the stream of sweaty, flushed women. Half of them head toward the locker room, with Claire shooting largely unseen _don’t you dare mess up my freshly-cleaned locker rooms_ at them, half out the double doors to the parking lot. A few stay back to congregate around Cas, the way they always do.

“Hey,” Claire calls as the girl her age heads toward the door. “C’mere.”

The girl looks around like, _me_? When Claire says, “Yes you,” she looks hunted and takes a reluctant half-step back toward Claire, as though expecting to be pounced on.

“I’m not gonna jump you,” Claire says impatiently. “You’ve got a size sticker stuck to your butt.”

The girl’s face goes indignant and mortified at the same time. Her hand goes to her butt, and Claire says, “Also, piece of advice. When it comes to yoga pants, thongs are usually the way to go.”

The girl goes completely red.

 

“Oh my God,” Krissy says. “You said _what_?”

“What?” Claire says. “If your mom doesn’t teach you that sort of stuff, you gotta depend on the kindness of strangers.”

“You can’t tell someone they should wear a thong,” Krissy insists.

“You can’t tell someone you aren’t regularly having sex with to wear a thong,” Josephine corrects. She looks at Krissy. “Wear a thong.”

“ _You_ wear a thong,” Krissy blusters back, and Claire and Josephine both snicker at her.

“Shut up,” Krissy says. “You both suck.”

“Deftly,” Josephine says, and Krissy groans louder.

“Would you two like to be alone?” Claire says pointedly. They’re starting to get glances cast at where they’re perched at the bar, some of them more interested than annoyed. It is not at the top of her list to spend the night shooting down requests to watch them make out.

“Fine, fine,” Josie says, and changes the subject. “Are we going to Ren Faire this year?”

 

Before they parted ways on Saturday night, Krissy loudly and pessimistically predicted that Claire would have “scared that poor panty-wearing girl away from her dreams of exotic dancing.” Claire feels only a little guilty about it as she sits at her usual spot facing the pole-dancing room and watches all of last week’s participants except Panty-Wearing Girl enter the room and take their places.

Okay. _Maybe_ more than a little guilty. Maybe like fifty percent guilty.

 

When she leaves the rec center after locking up, though, there’s an old silver Camry on the side of the road being loaded onto a tow truck. Panty Girl is standing there in her yoga pants watching it, her arms wrapped around herself.

Claire pulls over, crunching on the gravel shoulder. She gets out. “Hey. Do you need a ride?”

Panty Girl looks mortified. She also looks sweaty and tired. She looks back and forth between Claire and the scruffy-looking tow guy, who has a fairly clean shirt but also a pack of cigarettes sticking out of his front pocket, above which is embroidered the name _Benjamin._ Claire’s not big on Benjamins. Except the money kind.

“I mean, he’s probably totally legit and not a sexual predator,” Claire says, “but as a young female myself I’d feel kind of anxious in your shoes, so I’m willing to do you a solid.”

Panty Girl sort of gapes at her. Then she says, “Thanks,” and gets into Claire’s car.

Claire nods at Tow Truck Guy and slides into her own seat. “Where’re we going?”

“My uncle runs a garage.”

Claire hands her the GPS her mom bought her when she started college like forever ago. “Put in the address.”

Programming it into the machine with the practically unresponsive touchscreen takes about five minutes, literally, and then the girl attaches the suction cup to the windshield in front of Claire. “…thanks.”

“You’ve got no panty lines today.”

“Do you think about _any_ thing else?” Panty Girl demands. But her voice sounds laughingly exasperated.

“I’m a little anal,” Claire says. “No pun intended. Once an idea gets stuck in my head…” She mimes the motion with her hand, “it gets stuck. Like a mental wedgie.”

“Uh-huuhhh,” Panty Girl says. “…I think you may have gotten stuck in the anal stage.”

“Oh my God, was that a Freud reference?” Claire exclaims. “We should be friends as long as it was facetious.”

“Is a reference to Freud ever anything but?”

“Marry me.”

Panty Girl turns pink again. The GPS proclaims, “TURN LEFT TO REACH YOUR FINAL DESTINATION.”

Their final destination is a slightly-reputable-looking converted gas station that says SINGER SALVAGE AND AUTOMOTIVES on the window. There’s a man standing in the mouth of one of the garages, squinting and wiping his hands on some rags.

“Hey, Uncle Bobby,” Panty Girl says. She’s gotten out of the car; Claire follows suit.

“Thought you were comin’ with Benny.” Uncle Bobby is looking at Claire suspiciously, or maybe that’s just the density of his eyebrows talking.

“Yeah. I got a ride from…”

“Claire,” Claire provides.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “You rode with somebody you don’t know from Adam. Your daddy’s gonna kill me.”

“I’m not somebody she doesn’t know from Adam,” Claire says. “I’m a girl. Also, I know her from pole dancing.”

Bobby’s Super Eyebrows fly up. Panty Girl turns a lot of different shades of red.

“I’m going to go die now,” she says. “Feel free to carve whatever you want on my headstone, it couldn’t be more embarrassing than this.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about pole dancing,” Claire says. “Have you seen the six-pack Cas has?”

Panty Girl disappears into the garage office. That leaves Claire and the bearded dad figure.

They make eye contact for a couple seconds.

“Huh,” he says. “You want a soda?”

 

The next week, Claire watches Panty Girl approach through the main double doors. Her stride is purposeful, really more of a stomp, and Claire is snickering by the time she comes through the doors and up to the front desk.

Panty Girl’s ears are reddening; she’s clearly aware that she’s being laughed at, but she slaps a cellophane-wrapped cake pop down on Claire’s counter and says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Claire says. “Wanna grab dinner after this?”

 

Panty Girl looks a little confused as to how she ends up a greasy Cuban hole in the wall with Claire. “Six quava pastries, please,” Claire says, enunciating the hard k sound of the q. “What do you want?”

“Is that all you’re getting?”

“They’re really good,” Claire says in explanation, but she still looks confused. “Like, _really_ good.”

“Ooookay,” she says. “Can I have two empanadas, please? And the mango drink.” After they sign their respective receipts on the sticky counter next to the jars of mango- and chili-flavored lollipops and grab a small, equally-sticky stable, Panty Girl says, “You know you’re not supposed to say it like a _q_ , right…?”

“It’s a joke,” Claire reassures her. “I only made that mistake once.” She leans back in her chair, slinging her arm expansively over the empty chair beside her. “I wasn’t always the savvy super cool person I am now.”

“Where am I supposed to be seeing that person?”

“Smartass,” Claire approves. “If I had my stamp of approval on me I’d use it.”

“Where would that stamp go?”

That’s flirtation. Claire recognizes it. “…depends on where you want it.”

The response, whatever it would have been, is cut off by the cashier calling, “Emma!” and Panty Girl getting up.

“That’s your name?” Claire says when she comes back with her tray of glistening golden empanadas. “Emma. I like it.”

“Oh my God.” Emma looks like she’s going to dig herself six feet under all over again. “You didn’t know my name?”

“You didn’t tell it to me,” Claire says. “I figured you wanted to preserve the air of mystery. Or prevent me from trying to Facebook friend you prematurely.”

“I’m the worst at this,” Emma says.

“Not _the_ worst,” Claire says kindly.

Whatever Emma might have said in response to this is cut off by the server calling out their orders at the counter. They go up together to get them, and Tracy, who was the one who said, “Hey, dumbass, the q’s are sarcastic” the first time Claire made the first (real) pronunciation mistake, slants Claire an I-know-what-you’re-up-to look that makes Emma look between them uncertainly.

“Are you guys…?”

“Madly in love?” Claire says. “No.”

Behind them, Tracy barks a laugh and throws a lollipop at the back of Claire’s head. It bounces off and lands on the floor.

“Sisters in a past life?” Claire says. “Maybe. She never lets me get away with my dignity in front of girls I’m crushing on.”

Emma grins.

 

Tracy’s little antics seemed to have loosened Emma up a bit; she laughs at most of Claire’s witticisms, and even makes a few of their own, as they work their way through dinner—or dessert, in Claire’s case. Claire forks one of her pastries onto Emma’s basket of chips, and Emma tips some of her chips onto Claire’s plate, and together they pack away an insane amount of carbs. By ten o’clock, they’ve bought two more rounds of guava pastries, and Emma’s licking the sugary pink filling off her knuckles.

“What the hey,” Claire says, spotting some bright red cracks on said knuckles. “Did you bite yourself?”

Emma follows Claire’s eyes to her hands in confusion. “What? Oh! No.”

“Then what’s with the busted knuckles, Rocky?”

“I kickbox.”

“What?”

“Kick. Box,” Emma enunciates. She flexes her fingers as she says it, as though in demonstration.

“Like…?” Claire mimics punching a punching bag underhand. “Steve Rogers-style?”

“Exactly like that,” Emma says solemnly.

“ _Exactly_ like it?” Claire says, just as solemn. “I think I need to watch you do it from behind to make sure. It’s all in the ass, you know.”

“Don’t preach to the master,” Emma says, and Claire cracks up.

Emma’s grinning, a proud sort of grin, and Claire’s on a sugar high and full of caffeinated orange soda and it feels kind of like the night before Christmas as they push their way out of the narrow doorway, hips and shoulders bumping, onto the equally narrow sidewalk, night air chilly and cars zooming past them down the main drag that cuts across the eastern edge of campus, that glittery expectant half-asleep feeling you get where everything’s not-quite-real/too-good-to-be-true. They head toward their cars in the alley parking, Emma balancing on the curb with her arms held out, and Claire says, “You wanna go out again sometime?”

Emma has this concentrating face on, like she’s trying not to fall off the curb. Claire wants to poke her in the side. She does. Emma topples to the side, flailing a kick at Claire. Claire hops up onto her place on the curb.

“Jeeeeeerk,” Emma says. She flicks a glance at Claire from under her eyelashes before concentrating on the sidewalk cracks beneath her feet again. “Go out, like…”

“A date,” Claire says.

A smile that’s stupidly wide and shy at the same time breaks onto Emma’s face. She tries to hide it, which is, okay, horrible adorable. Claire leans forward, doing a stupid head-butt to Emma’s head with her nose.

Emma’s grin gets, if anything, wider. “Did you just blow your nose in my hair?”

“It was a head butt,” Claire says. “It’s how I show affection?”

“Should I wear a helmet?”

“Probably. A mouth guard, too.”

They’ve reached their cars. Emma kind of sways toward her, balancing on the curb again, then drops down off of it. “Guess I’ll see you next week.”

“Guess so.” Claire hesitates a minute, then darts forward, pecking a kiss to the corner of Emma’s mouth, and sprints to her car.

 

The next week, there’s a big beefy blonde guy who drifts into the rec center about fifteen minutes after the class starts. He’s familiar. Claire squints at him. The squint gets a little narrowed when he stops in front of the pole-dancing class and watches. Cas is teaching the Fireman Spin tonight.

“Hey,” she says loudly. “Can I help you with something?”

The guy turns around. His eyes light up when they land on Claire, and as they make eye contact, she recognizes him, too.

“Stalker boy,” she says at the same time he says. “You minx, you!”

“I do not stalk,” he says at the same time she says, “I know you are, but what am I?”

“ _You’re_ Emma’s super-secret crush,” he says.

“Clearly not so secret.”

The guy shouts a laugh. “Touché! Except I knew Emma liked you before she did, so I don’t count.” He makes his voice higher. “ _And then she told me to wear a_ thong _, Ajax—can you believe the nerve?_!”

“Her voice isn’t that high,” Claire observes.

“Maybe you only hear the sultry sex voice,” he counters.

“Uh oh,” Claire says, and nods over his shoulder. Emma is looking over her shoulder at them in a sort of horror that turns into a _you are so dead look_ when Ajax turns around to meet her eyes. Ajax just laughs. Then, on an abrupt one-eighty, he pivots back to Claire.

“I’m here to give the protective family members speech.”

“Are you related?” Claire says dubiously.

“Believe me,” he says. “You want the talk from me.”

“Her dad’s not _that_ bad.”

Ajax gives her a _have we met the same person?_ look. “Uh-huuuuuh,” he says skeptically. “Anyways. You don’t have balls, but if you hurt Emma I will chop off your XX equivalent.”

“Is it maybe a little early for this talk?”

“It’s never too early for threats of bodily harm.” ~~~~

“Of course not,” Claire says. “Silly me.” She cocks her head at him. “So, does this interrogation mean you’re going to cockblock me tonight?”

“Of course not,” Ajax says. “Do you know the last time I saw Emma wear a thong? Well, never. But the last time she asked my help picking out a thong?” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t let a hurricane get in the way of this plane ride.”

 

Emma charges out the minute Cas releases them for mid-class break. “Oh my God,” she says, “I’m so sorry. Where did he go?”

“Where did who go?” Claire turns a page in her Art History book, chewing on her pencil eraser.

“Don’t even,” Emma warns. “I saw Ajax skulking out here.”

“Oh, you mean that weirdo who’s in lust with Cas?”

“He’s not a weirdo,” Emma says, bristling immediately, and Claire grins at her. This makes Emma flush up for some reason, which only makes her cuter. Claire grins bigger at her.

“You’re…distracting me,” Emma accuses.

“Who, me?”

“I’m gonna get it out of you,” Emma warns, as Cas hits the gong inside the classroom to signal _break over, come back if you want._

“I’m looking forward to it,” Claire says, and winks.

 

Emma emerges from the showers with damp hair wearing a pale orange t-shirt. A cloud of Fresh Rain scent surrounds her; Claire recognizes it because she just bought that brand of deodorant on sale last week. She slides off her stool behind the counter. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Emma echoes. She’s smiling. She hitches her duffel bag strap closer on her shoulder. “What’s the plan?”

“I came up with the date activity last time. I thought you were coming up with something.”

Emma looks like a deer in the headlights.

“Just kidding,” Claire says. “I’m an endless font of creativity. We’re going to Phucky’s.”

 

Phucky’s is a Plucky’s Pennywhistle’s Magic Menagerie that went out of business and was bought by two entrepreneurial recent university grads who turned it into a cement-floored arcade/laser tag/indoor mini-golf wonderland. Also, a pizza place and smoothie joint. It tends to be packed on any given night, but there’s a particularly rickety air hockey table in the back that almost never has anyone using it because very few people can figure out how to jam the quarters in _just so_ to coax it to crotchety life. Claire beelines straight for it, taking the side facing the pizza bar while Emma stands on the side facing the laser tag entrance. The strobing multicolored lights from it flash across her face in the fairly dim lighting, and by their fourth match, they’re both covered in a light film of sweat because apparently keeping the AC on seventy-eight keeps costs down for the owners. Claire is half focused on the trajectories of the puck across the scuffed green tabletop and half focused on the flex of Emma’s seriously amazing biceps and triceps in her cap-sleeved shirt and also the glorious hang of her breasts in the V-neck of her shirt as she leans forward to _shick_! the puck away from her slot.

“I am a perverted fourteen-year-old,” she realizes aloud.

“What?” Emma misses the puck. It slides into her slot. “Dammit! You did that on purpose!”

“I didn’t,” Claire says. “Which is not to say I wouldn’t have if it had occurred to me. God, I want to fuck you.”

Emma’s mouth literally drops open. “Then why did you bring me to an _arcade_?”

“It’s called Phucky’s?” Claire tries.

 

They end up at Emma’s place.

“Do you want something to drink? We have water or—V8 Splash—sorry we don’t have anything else right now—”

She’s babbling. Claire takes the Boba Fett-emblazoned glass Emma took out of the cupboard to get her a drink, sets it down on the counter, and takes Emma’s now empty hand and puts it on her breast.

Emma’s eyes dilate. Literally dilate, as Claire leans forward into her palm.

“My room is—this way,” she stammers.

It’s not entirely clear which of them shuts the bedroom door behind them, but it ends up shut, and locked, and there’s a bra hanging from the door knob inside, and God that is too cute, Claire just has to—just needs to—

Emma jumps at the feeling of Claire’s mouth on her nipple through her shirt and bra, her hands flying automatically to Claire’s head. An initial instinct to push away; then instead she hesitantly curls her fingers very lightly into Claire’s scalp, warm thumbs against Claire’s ear lobes, and God, it makes her stomach drop out, and a hot part of her much lower drop out: open, waiting. She sucks harder, her tongue able to feel Emma’s nipple trying to peak against the cushion of her bra, then releases her mouth. “Can we strip?”

Emma looks almost ridiculous, this wet spot on just one side of her melon-colored shirt, flushed. Claire crowds in against her, their legs against the mattress, and catches Emma’s hand by the wrist to lift it to her mouth. Emma looks transfixed by the movement, watching her hand travel toward Claire’s mouth like it’s a separate part of her, and Claire touches the index finger to the curve of her lower lip. Emma stares, and Claire parts her lips. Cradles Emma’s finger in the curve of her tongue and breathes warmly onto the ridges of her fingerprint. Then she leans forward, taking it inside, and holding eye contact with Emma until she comprehends the message, the permission,  and pushes her finger hesitantly into Claire’s mouth, exploring along the wet silken inside of her lip, the warm curves of her teeth and soft palate.

Claire closes her eyes and strokes her tongue down Emma’s finger. Emma looks hypnotized; her eyes float shut as the sensation lifts goosebumps along her skin. Claire lifts her hand to Emma’s wrist again, and holds it still as she pulls off her finger and presses her open mouth to the side of Emma’s instead. A gentle lick of her tongue there; Emma inhales sharply, and Claire’s tongue slides in to trace along the inside of her top lip. Emma tilts her head, and their mouths close together, a wet seal of skin. Lips parting, and closing, and pursing; gentle smacking noises and they meet, and seal, and pull apart. Again. Again. Again.

On the bed now. Tugging at the blankets and pillows under them and Emma scoots under Claire up the bed without letting their mouths apart for more than a second at a time to get her head on the pillows. Claire’s wrists have found her wrists and held them down. Emma arches up against the hold, curving her spin, and Claire puts her full weight down at her pelvis, trapping Emma’s under it. The buttons of their jeans dig into her skin, the hard underwire of her bra, too, under Claire’s weight, and she squirms under Claire, pulls their mouths apart long enough to say, “Clothes.”

“Sorry,” Claire breathes, and sits up to unbutton her jeans. She watches Emma as she unbuttons them, pausing a moment as if for permission, and when Emma says nothing, just watches her with bright eyes, she shimmies out of them all the way, revealing fuchsia boy briefs underneath. Her abdominal muscles are a thing of beauty, arrowing down into the waistband.

Emma struggles up a little on her elbows. Her hand rises a moment, as if to touch, then lowers back down to the bedspread and clenches. Claire leans down again and pushes Emma’s shirt hem up with her hands, over her shoulders, mouths along her stomach. Emma hisses in a breath, and Claire looks up at her from beneath her eyelashes. Keeps looking at her as she unbuttons Emma’s jeans.

Emma’s stomach goes concave with anticipation as Claire slowly slides the denim down her waist and off her legs. There are red ridges left in her skin by the button and zipper and waist band, making Emma flush until Claire scrapes them with her teeth, which makes her flush harder as Claire’s eyes gleam hungrily up at her. God God God.

Claire exhales her way up Emma’s stomach back up to the soft mounds of flesh cupped inside her bra. She mouths Emma’s nipple through the cup again, soaking the fabric. She does the same thing with the other side, then free the nipple from the cup, thumbing it gently while she cups the rest of Emma’s warm breast in her hand for a minute, massaging the warm flesh. Emma arches, making desperate breathy noises, and Claire does a last kitten-lick of the nipple before pulling away and nudging Emma around to face the headboard.

Emma feels her unclasp her bra with her _teeth_. Her breath is hot along her vertebrae. Then she straightens back up, slinging Emma’s bra onto the floor, and her own follows suit. Emma goes nearly rigid with anticipation as she sees the plain black bra land on her clothing-strewn floor, and then Claire’s bare thighs are sandwiching hers and Claire’s _breasts are against her back_.

Claire hugs her close as Emma presses back against the feeling, stomach caving in and spine arching again. Her chin is a hard point digging into Emma’s muscles, hooked over her shoulder, and her elbows are around Emma’s bare stomach and her nipples are rigid fleshy points against Emma’s back. Then her splayed hands are sweeping up Emma’s belly and ribs to cross at the wrists over her sternum and cup both her breasts at the same time, weighing them, rolling them, massaging them. Emma’s bloodstream is singing; the space between her legs glows like a smoldering ember, warm and cozy and perfect. She presses back, putting her breasts more completely into Claire’s hold, held up only by her palms and fingers. Her hands find Claire’s bare thighs and smooth down them, dragging up and down to feel the soft hairs there. Claire shudders around her, her hold tightening on Emma’s breasts and belly, the wet heat of her lips through her briefs against Emma’s ass.

When she stops shuddering, as if in revenge, she shifts her hold so that one of her hands holds, or tries to hold, both of Emma’s breasts at once, and her other hand comes down to the V between Emma’s legs, the slick patch that has seeped through the thin tan satin fabric of her panties. She thumbs at the slick lips through the fabric, then slips inside. Traces across her folds.

Emma jolts up into the touch. Claire hugs her closer with the one arm and does it again. Dips just the tip of her finger inside her folds.

“Oh God,” Emma is saying. “Oh God oh God oh God—”

Claire turns her head to kiss the side of her neck. Emma twists her head to meet her mouth. Soon the wet slick friction of their mouths matches the wet slick touches between her legs, where she grips Claire’s wrist tightly there and holds her thigh tightly here—

She comes when Claire rubs a knuckle across her clit, feels the warm fluid. Claire removes her hand, glistening, and wipes her fingers down Emma’s bare stomach, thumbs her nipple with a glistening thumb.

Emma is breathing raggedly. Her whole body feels loose and floaty, her only grasp that of her hand limply around Claire’s thigh.

Claire lowers her gently forward onto the bed, nestling up close behind her, one elbow braced on the mattress, her forehead against Emma’s scapula and one leg going between both of Emma’s. She rides her thigh, harsh breaths panted out against Emma’s spine, her slick swollen lips dragging against Emma’s skin, and a distant part of Emma tries in horror to remember when the last time was she shaved her legs, but the smooth prickles are just perfect—Claire stiffens, clenching Emma’s thigh between both of hers, and then collapses half onto her, breathing wet and hot into the cove between Emma’s arm and back.

“Gah,” Claire hears one of them say. She’s not sure who. It doesn’t really matter. She nuzzles closer into the soft sweaty smell of Emma’s familiar deodorant and falls asleep.

 

(When they’ve known each other for a little longer, and Emma isn’t quite so shy, they get more adventurous. Claire coaxes her into dancing in front of her, and then on top of her, and a while after that, Emma is comfortable enough to ask for what she wants, which is for Claire to do the same.

Cas’s knowing looks are insufferable.)

 

 


End file.
